


Footsteps in the Sea

by Isis



Category: Black Sails
Genre: Alternate Universe - Rivers of London Fusion, Crossovering Exchange, Genius Loci, M/M, Post-Canon, Supernatural Elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-13
Updated: 2017-10-13
Packaged: 2019-01-06 03:48:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,926
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12203295
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Isis/pseuds/Isis
Summary: James and Thomas escape from the plantation, find passage to the islands, are caught in a storm at sea, and make a bargain with Neptune.





	Footsteps in the Sea

**Author's Note:**

  * For [linndechir](https://archiveofourown.org/users/linndechir/gifts).



> Apparently I, too, am really, really, into Ocean God Flint. Thank you for the awesome prompt!

_God moves in a mysterious way, His wonders to perform.  
He plants his footsteps in the sea, and rides upon the storm.  
\--William Cowper_

In the end, it turned out to be relatively easy to escape from the plantation. It was not something Thomas would have thought of doing by himself – not something he'd had any need to do, by himself – but James had turned his full attention to the task of getting them both out of there, and (as Thomas knew, as the pirates of Nassau had learned), when James turned his full attention to any task, it got done.

He'd miss the place, in a way. The work had not been easy, but it had been honest labour, and there was a certain satisfaction in seeing the plants he had placed in the ground flourish and grow, and then to harvest them with his own hands. The stews the slaves cooked were nothing like the elegant dishes that had graced his London town-house, but there had been plenty of food to eat. He had been granted the privilege of access to the small library, and on Sunday afternoons, when the inmates were given a half-day's leisure, he would read on the veranda or in the dappled shade of a tree.

He supposed one became accustomed to anything. He had been there long enough that the misery of his early days at the plantation was long forgotten. His hands had grown calloused; he wore a beard now. James and Miranda had been safely locked away in his heart, like portrait miniatures in a silvered frame, taken out to gaze upon ever less frequently over the years as his memories grew fainter and less certain.

And then James had strode across the field and into his arms, and everything he thought his life would be – everything he'd settled for – had been upended. Now he was following James' silent footsteps across the dark, stinking marsh, lit by a faint quarter-moon and the glow from the distant fires of a native settlement somewhere ahead of them. And the glow from the torches of the plantation behind them, growing ever more distant as they crept farther away.

 _Well_ , thought Thomas, _I've read all the books in the library. Twice._

James stopped, his arm out in a warning signal, and Thomas stopped behind him. The small sounds of the night rose around them: bugs and night-birds chittering, the low grunt of frogs, the wind rustling through the reeds and the stiff leaves of cabbage palms. Susurrations that his mind tried to interpret as voices. _Were_ they voices?

Another noise. That was definitely a hound's bark.

He took another step, closer to James, who reached back and took hold of his hand. James' face turned so that Thomas could see the outline of his features, see his lips pursing into a single word, a harsh whisper punctuated by a squeeze of his fingers.

" _Run._ "

Hand in hand, they ran. James led them through the thigh-deep water of an estuary, their feet sinking into the mud and sliding off stones that had been rounded by millennia of flowing water, and up across the low hummock of an island, tall grasses parting for their passage. Across another arm of water and a mud flat, exposed by the tide, and then into a dark forest of myrtle and cedar, and then out again.

Thomas did not know how long they ran, or how far. When they stopped, it was on a narrow beach. The moon had set and the settlement lights had been extinguished, but the stars shone above, bright and distant, and tiny flashes of light sparkled in the water that lapped against the shore. He did not think they were at the ocean yet – he could see a dim brightness across the water, another beach, perhaps – but he thought they might be close. The dogs had fallen silent, or perhaps they had returned to their kennel. Thomas could only hear the gentle rumble of waves and the chirruping of insects, and the steady beat of his own heart.

James was a dark shape against the starlit sky, his features barely visible as he indicated the dark hump of land that rose to their right, on the other side of yet another estuary arm. "If they track us, swim to that island there."

"Swim?" 

A short bark of what might have been laughter. "No matter – many of my men never learned how, either. Just get yourself across however you can. I reckon it's three hundred yards. Might even be shallow enough to wade."

"All right."

James stared off into the distance for another long moment, then clapped him on the shoulder. "I don't think they'll come. But I'll take the first watch, and if I shout, get moving. Head for the high point of that isle if we're separated."

"All right," said Thomas again. "Do you suppose we've a half-hour of grace?"

His voice had slipped into a huskiness he hadn't intended, but it made his meaning clear. Even in the starlight, he could see the hunger in James' eyes, and his grip on Thomas's shoulder tightened. "We'll find out."

The sparse grass behind the dunes was not soft, and sand found its way everywhere, and, mindful of their possible pursuers, they dared not let their voices rise above whispers. It didn't matter. It was still glorious, thought Thomas as he pressed his mouth against his lover's damp skin, muffling the gasp that rose unbidden in his throat. They had snatched a few moments of privacy now and then at the plantation, moving against each other with this same careful silence, but this was different, spiced with the exhilaration of their escape, the unknown dangers ahead, and the promise of the future that James was bent on carving out for them.

* * *

James woke him sometime deep in the night. Thomas got to his feet and pissed into the estuary's brackish water, then sat on his haunches on the beach, listening to the frogs and the night-birds. There were no voices, man nor hound, and no lit torches approaching their makeshift camp. 

When the eastern sky began to brighten with the approaching dawn, he touched James' shoulder, and James sprang awake instantly. They made a meagre breakfast from the bread and cheese they'd brought with them in a small sack, and half of their fresh water. The bread was slightly damp, but Thomas was hungry enough not to care. By the time they'd finished the last soggy crumbs, the first boats began to pass by, rowing-boats and small sailing craft, trailing fishing lines and nets behind them.

They were near a pass to the ocean, James had told him, where the margins of this vast continent fractured into the sea. The ever-reversing tidal flow made passes good fishing grounds, but they were hazardous for small boats except during the short period of time around slack tide. One such hour was clearly approaching.

They secreted themselves behind the dunes, and James watched the boats and boatmen with an appraising eye. Thomas wondered what, precisely, he was looking for. A fisherman who looked like he might be kind to a pair of shipwrecked travellers, or one who looked like easy prey? He himself would not buy his freedom with another man's life, not unless there was no other way, and he imagined his old friend James McGraw would agree. But James Flint would not hesitate to drive his fingers into a man's eyes and throw him over the side, if it would mean having a boat and fishing-gear to sustain themselves. 

James Flint was dead now, Thomas knew, but he could not imagine that a small part of him did not live on. Ten years in a role changed a man. As he himself had been changed by his life on the plantation, surely Captain Flint had some lasting presence in James.

But not as much as Thomas had feared, it turned out, because when James finally waved down a boat, it was a paddling-canoe, crewed by two native men. The Creek people were generally friendly, Thomas had learned, and these men were no different. After a pantomime discussion, leavened by the few words Thomas had learned in their language, the men agreed to take them to their village on their return trip, and trade them another paddling-canoe and provisions for the price of James' leather and silver belt and the thin gold ring Thomas still wore on one finger. He had to wet his knuckle to slip it off. 

"They'll sell them, of course," said James as he concluded the bargain. 

"The ring's got my name engraved on the inside. Will it lead the trackers to us?"

"Perhaps. But we'll be long gone."

"And where will we be long gone to?"

"To sea," said James, as he shaded his eyes against the sun to watch the fishermen as they paddled toward the ocean pass. "To sea."

From paddling-canoe to sailing-sloop they made their way up the coast to Charles Town, which was rebuilding itself, after the fire that had destroyed it – after Flint and his allies had destroyed it – as Charlestown, and there they found a merchant ship heading for the islands. Thomas was unsurprised at their path, as James had been a naval officer before he became a pirate, and so his adult life had been spent either on the sea or with an eye ever bent toward it. The brief time he'd spent on the plantation had made it clear he was no farmer. The captain of the merchant ship was suitably impressed by his demonstration of ship's knowledge, and had given them passage for the price of their labour.

"I suppose your ability makes up for my inability," Thomas had said ruefully.

"You'll learn." 

Thomas did not doubt it. After some discussion, they had decided that it would be folly to return to England, as the Hamilton family had already disinherited their wayward son, and Lieutenant McGraw had left the navy under a cloud of disgrace. Ten years would not be enough to wipe away the long memories of society. Nassau, James argued, was the logical choice.

"But they believe you dead," Thomas had objected.

"James Flint is dead, and is not coming back. But we could get a start in life there, under another name."

"They know you, James. Isn't that the point of going there?"

"Yes, but I still have friends there. Or at least people who will help us, provided we stay out of their way. And we don't have to stay on New Providence. There are other islands. But we will need to make a living, and the sea is the only way I can do that."

Thomas didn't chide him for saying that he'd be the one to make a living for them both. He'd been a nobleman, not bred to a trade. He supposed he could farm again, but that would take slaves or labourers, neither of which they had. "So you will be James McGraw again?"

James shook his head. "That life is as dead as Flint's. Perhaps I should take your name. We could say we're brothers."

"Hamilton? God, no. Have you forgotten that my father was Lord Proprietor of the Bahamas? We'd best both leave that name behind."

James considered for a moment. "Barlow, then. Will you be Thomas Barlow?"

Miranda's family name. It had a certain aptness to it, thought Thomas, and an air of homage that pleased his heart. And so that was how they had introduced themselves to Captain Nelson, as the brothers Barlow, and that was who they would be from now on.

* * *

The first three days out of Charlestown were clear and warm, with a light wind that propelled the _Anna-Maria_ gently but slowly across the water. Thomas had been sent to help the cook, while James took a place among the crewmen. They slept in bunks well forward, where the ship's motion was pleasant, though James warned him that in a swell the bow of the ship would buck and sway like an ill-bred horse.

Then came the storm. It rose from the southeast with clouds and thunder, whipping the sea into white-capped peaks as it raced to intercept them. By this time they had already rounded the uninhabited islands that lay north of New Providence, low sandy cays that the wind threatened to drive them against.

"We need sea room," muttered James. It was clear he was frustrated by his lack of control, his lack of authority – he would take command if he could – but he was only Mr James Barlow, now. 

"Will we not go by those islands? They seem quite far off to me," said Thomas. He took any chance he could to get abovedecks, as the combination of cooking smells and the ship's motion did not sit well with his guts. Even with the clouds spitting rain, it was still preferable to be outside.

"Not far enough," said James grimly. "We're making too much leeway. We need to turn north." Abruptly he left the rail and moved aft toward the ship's wheel, which was being held at an angle, apparently with no small difficulty, by one of the larger crewmen, as the captain looked on and shouted orders that were whipped away by the wind. James moved easily, with a rolling gait that absorbed the ship's motion, and Thomas could not help but envy his familiarity with the sea. When he drew near the captain, it was obvious just from the way each man stood that James was the more comfortable on the deck of a ship. 

Thomas was not close enough to hear their argument, but he could read it in their postures, in the way that James' politely deferential stance turned to angry gestures, in the captain's rigid spine and the tilt of his chin. Captain Nelson was young, well younger than either of them, and he had obtained his position by the simple fact of being the merchant-owner's nephew. His manner spoke of bravado, and a reluctance to cede any of his hard-won authority over his men. 

James gesticulated again. The captain shook his head, obdurate. Other members of the crew glanced meaningfully at the whitecaps, and the ship's master ventured to say something to Captain Nelson – Thomas could not hear the words, but it seemed to only make him dig in his heels further. The ship shook with the force of the wind; the sails had been nearly lowered, with only scraps of canvas straining against the lines that secured them to the masts. The foaming surf against the islands' fringing reefs was closer than the last time Thomas had looked.

"You'd best calm your brother," said one of the sailors as he passed by on his way to tend to his duties. Murdock, his name was; Thomas knew everyone's name by now, a consequence of their close quarters and his work as the cook's assistant. "Cap'n don't brook no disagreement."

"All right," said Thomas, quelling his own discomfort. It was not loyalty that made him uneasy, but a simple recognition that James was certainly the more experienced sailor, with his years in the Royal Navy and as a pirate captain. Surely he knew what he was talking about. But it would not do to antagonize the captain of the vessel that was carrying them to a new life. He made his way carefully toward the wheel. The ship fought him every step of the way, slewing this way and that underneath him. The drizzle had become a downpour, and his feet slid on the wet deck. 

"As for my own life, I don't give a damn." James bit out each word as though he were chewing on overripe dandelion leaves, those bitter greens that they had often eaten on the plantation in the place of sweet lettuce. "But Thomas is no sea-going man, and I will not risk his life for your pride!"

"You will not speak to me this way!" roared Captain Nelson. "I know my _Anna-Maria_ and I know –" 

Whatever he was about to say was cut off by a deafening rush of water sluicing across the deck between them as the ship tilted crazily to one side. Thomas grabbed onto the rail and prayed that his hands would not fail him. When he finally dared look up again, the captain was no longer in sight, nor was the sailor who had been wrestling the ship's wheel. His heart stopped for a moment...but no, there was James, gripping the wheel, his face contorted in a grimace, screaming into the storm. 

Thomas stared at him; he was like some vengeful god, beautiful and terrifying, shouting defiance at the elements. Suddenly James turned his head, as though aware of the weight of Thomas's gaze. Their eyes met for one impossibly long moment. 

Then a wave crashed over Thomas's head, salt water flooding his mouth and nose and throat, and he surrendered, and knew no more.

* * *

He woke to the rhythmic whoosh of waves on a nearby shoreline and gentle warmth on his face. The tantalizing scent of roasting fish wafted toward him, and he realised he was ravenously hungry. When had he last eaten? That handful of bread and cheese on the barrier island...no, that had been weeks ago. He was on a ship now, bound for Nassau, with James.

Thomas took a deep breath of the scented air, then another. Under his back was a firm surface, moulded to his body. It did not sway from side to side. Not on a ship, then. He opened his eyes.

A canopy of thick, broad leaves shaded him from the sun. There was no sign of the storm, only fat clouds dotting the deep blue sky. He turned his head toward the sound of the waves; they crashed onto a narrow, sloping beach, sending fingers of water toward him, but he lay high enough that none reached his resting place in the sand. A pale shelf of rock marked the end of the beach nearest where he lay, and just below the rock was a ring of stones with a number of forked branches holding fish above coals that were hot enough he could see the distortion in the air from the rising heat. 

Cautiously he got to his feet. If he was on a beach now, that meant that either he'd been washed overboard – he remembered looking up at the wheel and seeing neither captain nor crewman – or that the _Anna-Maria_ had gone down. He would not have given good odds on surviving either event. Yet here he was, on this beach, and he did not seem to have so much as a bruise on him. His muscles ached as though he'd spent a full day at his labours on the plantation, but nothing actually hurt. He was not coughing up water; his clothes were stiff with salt, but nearly dry.

The onshore breeze brought the smell of the cooking fish to him again, and his stomach gave a hopeful rumble. Someone else must have survived; somebody must have built the fire, caught the fish, set the improvised spit over the coals.

 _James._ Thomas prayed, silently but fervently, that it was James who had done this, that James yet survived. It must have been James, for who else would have tended to him, carried him to the edge of the beach and laid him in the shade? The crew of the _Anna-Maria_ had been cordial enough, but they were rough men all, and he couldn't imagine them being solicitous of his comfort. And as both Lieutenant McGraw and Captain Flint, James had lived on the sea in all its myriad moods for most of his life. Of all the men on the ship – all the men in the world, thought Thomas – it was James who had the best chance to survive a shipwreck. 

And if that was the case, he reasoned as he made his way toward the fire pit, James would not begrudge him one of the fish.

As it happened, he ate two, licking the sweet fatty juices from his fingers and washing the meat down with the water that sat by the fire in a chipped pottery jug. He'd tasted it cautiously at first, to verify that it was freshwater, and then drank it all down despite it being slightly warm from having sat beside the coals. There must be a well on this island, then, or a spring. He looked back toward the thick tangle of bushes at the inland edge of the beach and saw no obvious pathway to the interior. Maybe, he thought, the route went over the grey rocks above the fire pit. James might be there now, getting more water, or even exploring the island.

With his hunger and thirst sated, he was in no urgent hurry to explore the island himself. If it had been James who had left the water and fish, he'd not be gone long – Thomas had been unconscious, after all, and James would no doubt want to check on him. Thomas should be here, on the beach, when he returned. The spot in the sand where he'd been lying when he'd awakened was a pleasant one, in the breeze and in the shade; that would be a good place to wait.

He left the fire pit and walked down to the water's edge, to wash the scent of fish from his hands. The waves seemed quite gentle to him, nothing like they had been during the storm; out past the breakers the whitecaps had settled into smooth rollers, and he wondered how long it had been since his last conscious moment on the ship. He bent to get his hands wet in the clear water behind the foaming leading edge of the wave, then stood, briskly rubbing his hands together, looking out to sea as the waves lapped against his feet.

A dark shape was approaching, clear beneath the turquoise waters. He couldn't tell precisely what it was, as the ever-shifting waves blurred it, distorted it, but it looked large to him. Maybe a shark, he thought uneasily, and stepped back, onto the firm, wet sand.

Then the thing under the water broke the surface. Short russet hair, then the familiar face, and by Christ above, that was James, rising from the waters like Venus, striding through the breaking waves which seemed to scatter from his legs like living things. He was holding a large fish in his left hand and a dented silver ewer in his right, and his smile, when he saw Thomas, was sharp and fierce and almost terrifying.

"Good, you're awake," said James. Water dripped from his short beard, but he looked almost dry, as though he'd been walking through the streets of London, not through the sea. "I've got us more supplies." He grinned. "There's gold there, too. Not as much as the _Urca_ had, but it should set us up nicely."

"Gold?" repeated Thomas faintly. 

James' grin had something feral in it. "I have a feeling we'll be welcome in Nassau." He tilted the ewer and poured a white slurry onto the sand, then lifted it to his lips and took a long swallow. Then he extended it toward Thomas. "Freshwater, if you want some."

In a daze, Thomas took the ewer from James' outstretched hand, and drank. It was indeed freshwater, though with a hint of salt on the vessel's rim. But it had been in James' hand when he had walked out of the ocean. How could this be – how could _any_ of this be?

He sat in the sand and watched as James knelt to put his fish over the coals, using a knife he pulled from his belt to split it open and scrape out the innards. Thomas didn't recognize the knife – no, he did, it had belonged to one of the crewmen on the _Anna-Maria_. 

"James." His voice came out in a croak. "Please. Tell me what has happened. Are we dead, and in Paradise?"

"Not dead. Paradise, well. It may be." James gave a harsh laugh that had an edge of hysteria to it. He had iron strength, Thomas knew, but it was clear that his strength had been pushed to near its limit.

"Tell me what happened. The _Anna-Maria_ , did it sink? Did any others survive?"

"Yes," said James. He finished gutting the fish and hung it from its gill-slit close over the coals. He did not look at Thomas. "And no. You and I, we are the only ones left."

Twenty-two men, all drowned. Thomas closed his eyes for a moment, remembering them. Willis, the cook; Catterson, who whittled bits of wood into decorative, whimsical creatures when he was not working; poor young Captain Nelson. 

He opened his eyes again. James had seated himself in the sand by the fire pit, his back to the rock ledge, and was eating the single fish that Thomas had left there as his recent catch slowly cooked. How, wondered Thomas, had he caught those fish? James had no line and no hook. The fish had been dangling from his fingers as he rose out of the sea….

"How is it that we are alive?"

"I pulled you from the water and pressed on your chest until you spat it all out. I think I should teach you how to swim." He finished the fish and licked his fingers. 

"How is it," said Thomas evenly, "that _you_ are alive?"

James finally turned his head to meet Thomas's eyes. "I made a bargain."

* * *

It was a fantastic tale, the story James spun for him, and at first Thomas had protested that he wanted the truth, even if it was grim. "Don't put me off with wild inventions to hide what happened. Even if you murdered them all to save me, that would not change things between us. I know you."

"I am no longer who I was. Not McGraw nor Flint nor even James Barlow. And if you did not love the pirate Captain Flint, you will not love who I am become." His voice was quiet, but it seemed to Thomas that he heard thunder in it, like a storm at sea. The waves had begun to build again, slapping noisily against the sand.

"You are my James beneath it all, and I am not giving you up again after having lost you for so long. Which is what you told the captain, so I am confident that these words will carry some weight with you."

"And that is what I told the ocean when it snatched you away from me. I defied him and he answered me. He offered me your life for certain terms, and I accepted them."

"You spoke with...Neptune?"

James shrugged. "Neptune, Poseidon, Davy Jones. Call him what you will. He's spread thin these days, with so many ships sailing the Atlantic. So many pirates in Nassau and Port Royal, the Spanish and the English fighting for domination. Too much work for too little reward, watching over these tiny islands at the edge of the ocean."

"You said he made you a god." The words seemed strange in his mouth, as Thomas had always considered himself a rational man. He did not dispute that there must have been a Creator to set the world in motion, but it made no sense that such a force would concern itself with the ongoing affairs of men. Gods, he was certain, were the invention of superstitious folk who did not understand reason. It was hard enough to credit that James had spoken with the deity of the oceans; that he had been transformed into a like deity was beyond imagining.

Still, he'd appeared from the waves as though he had simply risen from them, and he'd poured off the salt from a jug of seawater as though it was nothing more than separating cream from milk. 

"He made you a god," Thomas said again, testing the sound of it.

James smiled, baring his teeth like a shark, and it seemed to Thomas that the sky darkened behind him. "He offered me a job."

"Doing what, exactly?"

"Protecting my waters. Keeping an eye on these cays and on those who would exploit them."

"That sounds very like what James McGraw told me that he wanted to do ten years ago," Thomas observed.

"Hah! Perhaps it's my destiny, then. And yours." His face turned serious, deep lines creasing his sun-tanned forehead and cheeks. "For know this, Thomas, we are bound here now." 

"To this island? Not that I've looked around much, but it doesn't strike me as very...homely." 

"Not to this one in particular, no. But to these islands in this patch of sea. There are plenty from which to choose – Nassau, or Eleuthera, or any number of small settlements."

"So it is to be a choice between pirates or idealists?" He snorted, amused. "I suspect you'd be happier with the former, and I'd be happier with the latter."

"We could claim any one of five hundred uninhabited isles to build our own kingdom, if that suited you. And it's not as though we can't leave. We could return to England for a visit, or to France or to Spain. But we must settle here."

"Our home until we die, then. It's better than being at the bottom of the ocean."

"That...is another part of the bargain," said James. He looked abashed, which Thomas found oddly endearing. "It's a permanent post, so to speak. And by permanent I mean eternal." 

Thomas nodded. It made sense; if gods existed, and were like mythological gods, they would be, after all, immortal. "If you will be kind to me as I grow old, I will have no complaint about you remaining young and handsome."

"It was a deal for _our_ lives. For both of us. If I have to live forever, I'm damned if it won't be with you."

"Oh," said Thomas, weakly. "That's a...generous gift."

"It is not a gift," growled James. "It is a responsibility." He stood and paced back and forth along the sand. "There wasn't time to think about it. There was nothing but wind and water, and the ocean's voice in my ears, and your unbreathing body in my arms. I knew it was right. It was _right_ ," he repeated, his voice cutting the air sharply, like the crack of a rifle. "Maybe I cannot be a ship's captain and I cannot be a pirate, but _I can be this_."

The thunder was in his voice again, echoed by the waves crashing against the beach, the water reaching higher now, foaming around James' boots as he stood, defiant, on the beach. It seemed to Thomas that James had forgotten he was even there, and was speaking to the ocean itself. The air crackled with a sense of potency, of power, and if James had stretched his hand to the heavens and called the lightning down, Thomas would not have been surprised. There were clouds enough for it, obscuring the sky that had been blue not long ago. 

A particularly tall wave broke across the beach, sending fingers of waters as high as the fire pit. The coals hissed as the seawater hit them. Thomas scrambled out of its reach, pressing himself against the scrubby plants behind him. Then he shook his head, and walked through the ankle-deep water to where James stood. He placed his hand on James' arm.

"Paradise, then," he said mildly. "It would please me of all things to share it with you."

James started, as though he'd been miles away. Perhaps he had, thought Thomas. Who knew what power a god had? 

"Paradise," repeated James. His voice was husky, soft. There was nothing of thunder in it now. "Yes, well. Paradise. I suppose we'll get used to it."

Gently Thomas reached out with his other hand to take James by the shoulder and draw him close. "It seems we will have an eternity to do so," he murmured, and kissed him.

Behind them, the waters calmed and the clouds dissipated, though neither of them noticed.

* * *

It was the biggest party Nassau had ever seen, and that was saying a lot, considering all that had happened in Nassau over the years. Max had said that she wanted no mourners, that she wanted those she left behind to toast her life in ale and rum, and even now it was still true that what Max wanted, Max got. Anne Bonny might be a half-blind widow now, grey-haired and scarred, limping on her son's arm in a sea of strangers, but by God she was going to have a drink in the old tavern to honour the woman who had once been her lover.

If only Jack….but no use crying over him now, she'd done her crying long ago. It had been only luck and her swollen belly that had kept her from swinging beside him in Port Royal. Only luck that had kept her alive long past her time. They'd all died, on the gallows or at the end of a pistol or lost at sea, and now that Max was gone – quietly in her bed, who'd have imagined that – Anne was the last of them.

The door opened again, as it had all afternoon, and two men strode in. Tall, young men, well-dressed and sober-faced. Something plucked at the threads of Anne's memories, and she leaned close to Young Jack. "The man who just walked in. D'you know him?"

Young Jack followed her gaze to the door. "That one sandy-haired fellow, his name's Thomas. Used to come in and do business with Max every so often. He'd sail a tiny catboat in from somewhere on a breath of wind, I recall." He laughed. "The breeze would bring him in, and the breeze would blow him out again. Always fine weather and calm seas when Thomas is about."

"No, not him. The other."

Young Jack shrugged. "Never seen him. You know who he is?"

"He's the spit of – no, you wouldn't know, that was years before your time. And Flint'd be an old man by now," she muttered, mostly to herself.

"Flint! _The_ Captain Flint? But he's been dead for years, hasn't he?"

Those had been the rumors, certainly. Jack – her own sweet Calico Jack – had pronounced him retired, and as for herself, she hadn't cared particularly, so long as he stayed out of her way. The stories had taken on a life of their own. But that man...no, he was far too young to be Flint. She watched as he took a glass from the girl who was handing them around. Flint's son, maybe?

Then he turned, sharp eyes scanning the room, and fuck her sideways, that _was_ Flint, in the flesh and not a day older. Their eyes met and he tilted his glass just a fraction in her direction, the edge of his mouth lifting in the barest hint of a smile as he drank. For a moment she felt thunder and cannon-fire thudding in her heart. She was striding across the _Ranger_ 's deck again, young and fit, with her beloved Jack at her side and sea spray in her face.

She lifted her own glass; to Flint or Flint's ghost, it didn't matter. "Yeah," she said. "Dead for years."

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to K for beta reading.
> 
>  _Black Sails_ is a mix of historical fact and fiction, and so is this story. Jack Rackham was hanged in Port Royal, and Anne Bonny received a stay of execution due to her pregnancy, but nobody knows what happened to her afterward.
> 
> The beach on which Thomas and James find themselves after escaping the plantation, by the way, is where the Bull River empties into Wassaw Sound. The beach where Thomas awakens after the shipwreck is in the Berry Islands of the Bahamas.


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